“Yes, and he’s going to die.”
The women contemplated the spread again.
“Does this mean she’s still alive?” Maura asked, tapping on a card in one of the branches – the Queen of Swords.
“Probably,” Calla grunted.
“Does this mean she’s going to leave?” Orla asked, tapping on another card and referring to a different she.
“Probably,” Maura sighed.
“Does this mean she’s coming back?” Calla demanded, pointing to a third card and meaning a third she.
“Probably,” shrieked Gwenllian, leaping up from the table. She began to spin with her arms in the air.
None of them could sit still any longer. Calla pushed back her chair. “I’m getting another drink.”
Jimi clucked in agreement. “If it’s the end of the world, I might as well, too.”
As the others left the table, Maura remained, looking at Artemus’s poisoned branch of cards and at Artemus himself, hunched behind it. Random men from mystical groves were no longer her type. But still, she remembered loving Artemus, and this Artemus was greatly diminished.
“Artemus?” she asked gently.
He didn’t lift his head.
She touched his chin with a finger; he flinched. She tilted his face up so that they were eye to eye. He had never rushed to fill spaces with words, and he still didn’t. He looked as if he might never speak again, if he could help it.
Since they had both climbed out of the cave, Maura had not asked him about anything that had happened in the years since she’d seen him last. But now she asked, “What happened to you to make you like this?”
He closed his eyes.
Where the hell is Ronan?” Gansey asked, echoing the words that thousands of humans had uttered since mankind developed speech. As he stepped out of the science building, he tipped his head backwards, as if Ronan Lynch – dreamer of dreams, fighter of men, skipper of classes – might somehow be flying overhead. He was not. There was only a plane tracing silently through the deep blue above the Aglionby campus. On the other side of the iron fence beside them, the town of Henrietta made productive afternoon business noises. On this side, the students of Aglionby made unproductive afternoon teenage noises. “Was he in Technology?”
Adam Parrish – magician and puzzle, student and logician, man and boy – shuffled his ambitiously laden messenger bag on to his other shoulder. He saw no reason why Gansey would believe Ronan had been anywhere near the campus. It was taking all of Adam’s willpower to focus on Aglionby after the week of magical caves and mysterious sleepers they’d just had, and Adam was the most motivated student there. Ronan, on the other hand, had only shown up to Latin with any regularity, and now that every Latin student had been ignominiously shunted into an extra section of French, what was left for him?
“Was he?” repeated Gansey.
“I thought it was a rhetorical question.”
Gansey looked angry for approximately the length of time it took for a late butterfly to bluster by them in the autumn breeze. “He’s not even trying.”
It had been over one week since they’d retrieved Maura – Blue’s mother – and Artemus – Blue’s … father? – from the cave system. Three days since they had put Roger Malory – Gansey’s ancient British friend – on a plane back to the UK. Two days back at school this week.
Zero days of Ronan attendance.
Was it a foul waste? Yes. Was it entirely Ronan Lynch’s responsibility? Yes.
Behind them, the bell rang noisily in the science building, two minutes after the period had actually ended. It was a proper bell with a proper rope, and it was supposed to be rung properly at the end of the period by a proper student. The two-minute disparity prematurely aged Adam Parrish. He liked it when people knew how to do their jobs.
“Say something,” Gansey said.
“That bell.”
“Everything is terrible,” agreed Gansey.
The two friends stepped off the walk to make the trek across the sports fields. It was a gift, this commute from the science building to Gruber Hall, ten luxurious minutes gulping air and sunshine between classes. Being on campus in general comforted Adam; the predictable routine cradled him. Study hard. Go to class. Hold up your hand. Answer the question. March towards graduation. Other classmates complained about the work. Work! Work was the island Adam swam to in a stormy sea.
And the sea was very stormy. Monsters churned in the ley line beneath them. A forest grew through the hands and eyes Adam had bargained away to Cabeswater. And Gansey was supposed to die before April. That was the troubled ocean – Glendower was the island. To wake him was to get a favour, and that favour would be to save Gansey’s life. This enchanted country needed an enchanted king.
That weekend, Adam had dreamt twice that they had already found Glendower and were now seeking him again. The first night he’d had the dream, it had been a nightmare. The second time, a relief.